I, Like Bob Kaufman, Know What I Am Not No, I am not vestiges of organs, disappearing into useless change.
No, I am not but flesh of ravenous flies, devoured and untranscended.
No, I am not mind-essence of Hare Krishna, vanishing by Nirvannic dogma.
No, I am not cannibalism of obscure Friesland, deracinating the Roman Empire.
No, I am not wood of Dutch feet, suffocating progeny with inbred gametes.
No, I am not roots of my family tree, bowlegging wholesome maidens.
No, I am not branches of the neurotic stump, sashaying in Dylan’s wind.
No, I am not rock of Plymouth, avalanche-rolling to grotesque destiny.
No, I am not purity of the Pilgrim wet dream, exploding in mutant molestation.
No, I am not an acolyte of Calvin, smothering erections for election.
No, I am not candles of Christ, flickering 40 times in Morse code.
No, I am not fields of enclosed peasants, scything the annals of history.
No, I am not hammers of Thor’s Vanguard, splattering canvasses with watermelon blood.
No, I am not half an ass of rebellion, rearranging Titanic deck-chairs.
No, I am not boom of babies, seeking numb solace in entropy.
No, I am not a professional of the young urbanites, reevaluating themselves with numbers.
No, I am not deadbeat of the heart’s crane, cormorant-diving into lethargic wreck-balls.
No, I am not balloon of helium, ascending from ash into light-headed splendor.
No, I am not arrows of capitalism’s bow, piercing the nipples of impecuniary mothers.
No, I am not schools of phish, thanking death for jamming neural traffic.
No, I am not glasses of rancorous nerds, focusing too hard on irrelevance.
No, I am not chemicals of Timothy Leary, expanding consciousness like an umpteenth Big Bang.
No, I am not fear of handcuffs, binding hands preemptively to convention.
No, I am not this generation of mine, generating nothing but mimicry.
No, I am not context, decorating me with deceit.